


If You'll Be Needing Two

by reveling_in_mayhem



Series: Eyeballs in the Microwave [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ASIP Alternate Beginning, Fandom Trumps Hate Prompt, M/M, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23709853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: “Actually, I’m not sure I will be taking the upstairs bedroom,” John said after her question.Sherlock spun to face him so quickly from where he had just tossed his coat on the leather sofa that his curls bounced across his forehead.“Why ever not?” he exclaimed in surprise. John blinked at him, surprised in his own right, at the reaction.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Eyeballs in the Microwave [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761142
Comments: 26
Kudos: 228
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	If You'll Be Needing Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shiplocks_of_love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by Shiplocks_of_Love's prompt of "What if, after John visits Baker Street for the first time, he decides to *not* take the flat share?"
> 
> A huge thank you to Hippiechick (who I won in FTH) for her help with betaing this fic!

Nine months ago, if someone told him he would be in London, he would have laughed. Nine months ago he couldn’t imagine being anywhere but under the blue skies and harsh sun, the velvet night sky with so many stars it could make a person dizzy, the sand and the heat and his comrades in arms surrounding his every moment. Nine months ago, he didn’t have a hole in his shoulder, a tremor in his hand, and a limp that had no physical reason to exist. 

Then, as things were wont to do, they changed. 

Caught in the crossfire. One bullet that was shot without being properly aimed. If it had, it might have hit a better target than his shoulder. Maybe it would have got him in the heart, or a lung, or the head. Sometimes, in the darkest times, he wished that it had. It’s infinitely easier being dead than existing without purpose.  
John no longer had a purpose. Honorably discharged from Her Majesty’s Royal Army. Honorable, because he was shot in the line of duty. It didn’t feel honorable. It felt like nothing. Without the proper use of his hand, he could no longer hold a scalpel. A limp that shouldn’t exist served as proof that his mental state was questionable at best. Psychosomatic. A symptom of PTSD. No longer fit for duty. No longer fit for surgery. 

A chance meeting with Mike, of all people, as he wandered around London after an appointment with his Army mandated therapist would have been low on the list of things that he would have expected to happen to him. He wouldn’t have expected Mike to recognize him, to call out to him, to sit and have coffee. And he definitely wouldn’t have expected to follow him back to Bart’s and meet someone who was just as difficult to find a flatmate for as himself. 

Nine months ago, he would never have expected Sherlock Holmes. 

He was enigmatic. Posh, and rude, and sexy as hell. John was completely off balance and caught up in the riptide that was Sherlock Holmes within minutes. The man took one look at him and read him like an open book. His military background, an alcoholic sibling, invalided. His damn psychosomatic limp. He made a casual comment about playing the violin and not talking for days, and would that bother John as potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. 

A name, an address, and a wink -a wink!- tossed before the lab door closed, had haunted his walk back to the God-awful bedsit that was all he could afford on his Army pension. 

That was the reason why, twenty-four hours later, he stood in the middle of a chaotic flat in central London while the elderly landlady tried not at all subtly to verify that they would actually need two bedrooms as Sherlock Holmes vaulted around the sitting room picking up random items after a rather careless comment John had made about the mess. 

“Actually, I’m not sure I will be taking the upstairs bedroom,” John said after her question. 

Sherlock spun to face him so quickly from where he had just tossed his coat on the leather sofa that his curls bounced across his forehead. 

“Why ever not?” he exclaimed in surprise. John blinked at him, surprised in his own right, at the reaction. 

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, looked flustered at the sudden turn in the conversation and tossed her hands in the air. “I’m going back to my flat so you two can have your little domestic in private. Don’t be too loud dears,” she proclaimed as she headed out the door and down the stairs. John watched after her for a moment before turning back to Sherlock. 

“Well, for one thing, we hardly know each other,” John picked the conversation back up as Mrs. Hudson’s steps echoed down the stairs. 

“What does that have to do with anything? We’re going to share a flat, not get married,” Sherlock countered, and John tried to ignore the swoop in his belly at that. “Though in fairness, arranged marriages actually have a significantly lower percentage of divorce, so even if I was proposing marriage rather than a flatshare, the numbers would be on our side.” 

“What?” John asked, bemused by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. 

“I hate repeating myself. I’m trying to explain that statistically sharing a flat with a relative stranger,” the man began but was cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps running up the stairs. Definitely not the elderly landlady. 

Both men turned at the sound and John watched as an attractive man with silver hair came into the flat without knocking, his gaze fixed on Sherlock. 

“What’s different?” Sherlock demanded as the man took a moment to get his breath back. 

“You know how they don’t leave notes? This one did,” the stranger replied without any further information. “Will you come?” 

Sherlock hesitated a moment, his gaze flickering to John before he turned back to the silver-haired man and nodded. “I’ll follow behind. Where at?” 

The man rattled off an address, then turned to go, his gaze passing swiftly over John without comment. John watched him head down the stairs before he turned his attention back to Sherlock, who waited until he heard the sound of the door closing downstairs before literally jumping in the air with a delighted grin. Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to come back up the stairs. 

John found himself idly wondering how many people walked up and down those steps in a given day. In just the last 30 minutes it had seen more action than John had seen in a year. 

“What on earth was that about?” Mrs.Hudson asked as she reached the landing, apparently as confused as John, for which he was grateful. 

“Four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!” Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf off the sofa he had thrown it on earlier and quickly pulled them on. “I’ll be out late. Might need some food.” 

“I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper,” Mrs. Hudson replied easily. 

“Something cold will do,” he said, then swept out of the room without a backward glance. 

John stood there, leaning heavily on his cane, as Mrs. Hudson tutted and shook her head. She said something, but John wasn’t listening and was unable to answer her. 

What on earth just happened? Just who was this man? 

He was so lost in his thoughts that he missed the sound of footsteps on the stairs again, and nearly jumped in surprise as Sherlock stood before him. 

“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock stated. 

“I was a doctor,” John corrected him. 

“You are an army doctor,” Sherlock repeated. 

John ground his teeth at the repeated statement. No. He wasn’t a doctor. Not anymore. A bullet in Afghanistan saw to that. 

“Saw a lot of injuries. Violent deaths. Had your share of trouble too, I’d wager,” Sherlock continued, and John felt like he was being set up for something, but he wasn’t quite sure what. 

“Yes, of course. Far too much,” he said. 

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock asked, and John swore the man’s eyes sparkled. 

Then, against all of his better judgment, his mouth answered before his brain could stop it.

“Oh God, yes.”

*

A whirlwind taxi ride, a crime scene where Sherlock became obsessed with the color pink before he ran off and abandoned John to his fate, then an obnoxious warning that Sherlock Holmes was a psychopath with murder in his future, left John feeling even more useless than he had earlier.

Sherlock had explained his deductions about John that he had made when they first met while in the taxi, and John had been astonished. “Amazing” he had told him, and Sherlock seemed shocked at the praise. John reiterated that it was extraordinary. Sherlock was extraordinary. John had contributed nothing of note at the crime scene, and judging by the way Sherlock had taken off without him, the self-proclaimed consulting detective agreed. He had no idea why he was there, what he was meant to have done, then he was forced to wander around Lauriston Gardens as he tried to find a taxi. 

And telephones kept ringing every time he passed one. 

The first one was odd, the second one made him pause, and the third phone ringing couldn’t be ignored. He answered it, somewhat perplexed and more than a bit intrigued. A voice on the other end of the line made a show of control by manipulating a CCTV camera on the corner of the street. A black car pulled up as he was instructed to get inside the vehicle. 

Seriously, what the hell was with this day? 

An attractive dark-haired woman was in the car, and other than giving him a name, which was most likely fake, she stared and tapped away on her Blackberry. John sat back, resigned to at least get somewhat comfortable for the ride. If nothing else, he didn’t have to pay for a taxi. 

John glanced back towards the woman when the car pulled up into an abandoned car park and she told him to go ahead and get out. He stepped out of the car and approached a tall man standing beside an empty chair. The man leaned against an umbrella and John tried not to roll his eyes at the deliberate attempt to appear completely at ease. He had served two tours on the front lines in Afghanistan and the past 24 hours had been filled with more unexpected drama and spectacle than he had ever experienced there, barring the day he was shot. 

“Have a seat, Dr. Watson,” the man offered coolly as John came to a stop a couple of meters away from him. “Your leg must be bothering you.” 

Oh, so that’s how this was going to be played? John felt his shoulders draw down and squared up, his back straightening in an instinct born of years in the military and an unwillingness to back down to bullies  
since his youth. 

“I’d rather stand,” he replied, his tone matching the coolness from the stranger in front of him. He didn’t want to play games tonight. “Who are you? What do you want?” 

The man’s head tilted slightly as he looked at John, a hint of something almost like approval on his features before his face went still again. 

“What is the manner of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?” he asked. 

John fought to keep his face from betraying his surprise. Sherlock? What does this man have to do with Sherlock? He wasn’t sure what he was expecting when all of this nonsense started, but it wasn’t this. 

“I barely know the man,” John answered honestly. He didn’t know what was going on, but he wasn’t planning on getting mixed up in it. Nor would he give away any information that would put Sherlock in danger.  
Sherlock was fascinating and charming, but they weren’t friends. He didn’t owe him anything. He barely knew him, which seemed to be a good thing at the moment, because there was nothing he could tell this man since he really didn’t know. 

Yet he knew deep in his bones he wouldn’t betray the man even if he did. There was something magnetic about Sherlock, and John was drawn to him in spite of himself. 

“You went to look at a flat with him this afternoon and now you’re going to crime scenes with him. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” the man asked with a sardonic eyebrow raise, and John couldn’t help the flare of anger that he knew passed over his features. He knew he was nothing more than a broken man now, but he didn’t need the fact that someone like him would never be good enough for a man like Sherlock to be thrown in his face. 

“Yes, where he then left me. As you can see I’m barely able to keep up with him,” he tapped his cane viciously against the side of his shoe to indicate his obvious limp and bum leg. “All I did was look at the flat and follow him when he asked. I have no idea where he is now or what he’s doing, so if we’re done here,” John began to turn his back on the man to walk away, but the man spoke up before he could complete the turn. 

“I can make it worth your while,” his public school accent intoned. 

“Make what worth my while?” John asked, genuinely confused. 

“I could pay you handsomely for any information you’re able to pass along to me while you live with him. Nothing you’d be uncomfortable sharing, I assure you,” he answered smoothly, and John’s stomach coiled in on itself at the idea of spying on anyone, nevermind Sherlock Holmes. 

“I won’t be taking the room, so that money would hardly be a good investment,” John bit back. His hand tightened so hard on his cane at the insult of being offered to be paid off to spy on someone that his knuckles cracked. 

The man’s eyebrows lifted in a flicker of what could only be surprise before it settled back into the mask the man seemed to perpetually wear. 

“I haven’t given you a number. It would more than cover the cost of your share of the flat and anything else you could possibly need,” he said, and John shook his head hard. 

“Who are you?” John asked in disbelief of the entire conversation. 

“A friend. Though Sherlock would likely call me an enemy,” he answered. 

“An enemy,” John repeated skeptically. 

“Archenemy, actually. He does like to be dramatic,” the man replied and John snorted. 

“Yes, thank goodness you’re above such drama. This conversation is finished,” he performed a perfect about-face, cane be damned, and walked away. 

“Your therapist is wrong, by the way,” that snake in the grass voice called after him, and John whipped around to stare at him. 

The man’s lips quirked up, obvious pride in his winning of a point at John’s expense clear on his face, before he carefully pulled out a black notebook and flipped through with the air of someone who was intimately familiar with every word that was written within. John recognized it immediately as the notebook his therapist wrote in during his sessions. The notebook was filled with all of the details of John’s life, the ones he bothered to share anyway, and for the first time during this whole melodrama, he felt a glimmer of fear. 

The man appeared to find the page he was looking for. “‘An intermittent tremor in hand as a result of PTSD’,” the man read out before he looked back up at John. “Your hand has been completely still the entire time we’ve been here. You aren’t afraid,” he said. 

“Well you aren’t exactly scary,” John said sarcastically. 

The man didn’t look at all impressed or surprised by his comment. “You miss the war, Dr. Watson. When you walk beside Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield,” he intoned as if John had never spoken. 

John’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t exactly deny that there had been a certain thrill in following Sherlock after the whirlwind of seeing the flat for the first time and then being taken to a crime scene, but that didn’t mean that he was going to admit it. It also didn’t mean he was going to be bought and paid for as a spy. 

“We’re done here,” he reiterated his earlier statement, 

“Yes, I believe we are. If you change your mind-” 

“I won’t,” John said decisively. 

The man watched him for a moment and no movement on his face suggested what he could possibly be thinking. “The car will take you home,” he said. “Or wherever you want to go,” he added succinctly and John turned on his heel before he could do something truly foolish, like punch that smug look off the man’s face. 

John walked back to the black car and let himself in, not surprised when the woman from before was sitting inside, still tapping away at her phone. “We’re to take you home,” she spoke as he settled on the smooth leather cushion, and he nodded. 

“So I’ve been informed.” 

John sat back as the car started and pulled out of the abandoned area and back into the traffic of London. His hand tapped absently against his cane as his mind went over everything that had happened. This day felt more like something he had seen while watching a television drama than real life. A chance meeting with an old friend that led to a potential flatmate in central London when he could barely afford the abysmal bedsit he was in seemed too good to be true. Then it turned out the man was a veritable genius, clever and endearing in surprising ways, but then he was whisked off to a murder scene and left behind. And then, then, of all things, he was essentially kidnapped by some egotistical prat with a brolly who had stolen his therapist’s notes about him in an effort to get him to spy on his potential new flatmate.  
It didn’t help that Sherlock Holmes looked like a damn movie star with his porcelain skin, sharp cheekbones, and mocha curls, which just added to the feeling of surreality. 

There was no way John could take that flat. While he might enjoy the danger and the electric buzz of adrenaline when it sang through his body and blood like oxygen, that didn’t mean he should jump into a living situation that all but promised that on a daily basis if this last 24 hours was anything to go by. 

John couldn’t keep up with Sherlock Holmes. Not with his leg and his tremor and his brokenness. He was broken, he knew that, and there was no use denying it to himself. 

A sudden vibration came from his pocket and went down his leg. He pulled the mobile from his pocket and glanced at the message signed by SH. That could only be Sherlock, and he had no idea how he knew John’s number, but then he realized that he wasn’t at all surprised. The message was straight forward. 

_Come to Baker Street if convenient. -SH_

Another message pinged before he got a chance to reply. 

_If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH_

Well, that just sealed that it was Sherlock. Even in a text, the man commanded a presence and a certainty that his demands would be met. John sighed. In this instance, it actually would be. He wanted to tell Sherlock about this man who’s trying to pay people to spy on him, then he was going to tell him in no uncertain terms that he would not be taking the flat, and he would go back to his bedsit and figure out his life later. 

He nodded at his own thought, then glanced at the woman still on her phone beside him. 

“Could you drop me off at Baker Street first?” he asked, and she nodded. “Any chance you could not tell your boss?” 

At that she actually looked at him for a moment, a smirk crossing her lovely face, and that was all John needed to know that her boss probably already knew he would be going there before he even got in the car. John looked away from her and out through the window to take in the passing streets of the city. 

He found the front door to Baker Street unlocked when the car dropped him off and made his way up to the flat. That door was wide open and John walked in. 

“Sherlock? You do realize that literally anyone could walk into this flat right off the street right now, right? Where are you?” John asked as he looked around for the taller man. 

“Ah, John, you’re here. Can I borrow your phone? I need to send a text,” Sherlock’s deep voice came from the sofa, and John found him lying there in complete repose. 

“I was on the other side of London,” John informed him. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. 

“You just texted me 20 minutes ago. Why didn’t you text whoever you needed to then?” 

“My number is on the website. Never know when someone might recognize it,” he explained, sort of, and John sighed quietly before he stepped closer and handed Sherlock his phone. 

He honestly had no idea why he was entertaining all of this madman’s whims. What was wrong with him? 

Sherlock took the phone and fired off a quick text. The flash of a flesh-toned patch on his skin caught John’s attention. 

“Nicotine patch?” he asked and Sherlock nodded. 

“Helps me think,” Sherlock replied as he handed John his phone back, and John caught a glimpse of another patch adhered to his inner arm. 

“How many do you have on?” 

“Three.” 

“Three?” John asked sharply, his inner doctor completely appalled. 

“It’s a three-patch problem,” the man replied with his eyes closed, completely unconcerned with John. 

He shook his head. John knew that nothing he said right now would make a difference to him, so he didn’t even bother explaining that three patches was a horrible decision. Besides, he had other things he needed to say right now. 

“So, I met a friend of yours,” he began casually, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open to look at him. 

“Friend?” he asked in disbelief. 

“An enemy,” he corrected and Sherlock seemed mollified by that answer. 

“Which one?” 

“Your archenemy, apparently. Do people have archenemies?” 

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes, actually.” 

“Did you take it?” 

“No,” John replied, offended at the thought, yet again, that he would spy on someone for money. 

“Pity, we could have split it. Think it through next time,” Sherlock replied, and John couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. This man was so unlike anyone he had ever met before. 

“Who is he?” he asked. 

“The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet and not our problem at the moment,” he answered decisively. 

John took a deep breath. Well, he told Sherlock about the man. That was all he could do. Sherlock didn’t appear surprised or concerned about him, and John wasn’t his keeper, so best to move along to the next order of business. 

“Sherlock, I’m going to have to pass on the flat. It’s been quite an interesting day and while I’ll admit that I’ve enjoyed parts of it, and meeting you, I,” he began, but his phone buzzed in his hand and Sherlock jumped up from his spot on the couch. 

“Don’t answer that,” he instructed as he crossed the room and tossed a pink suitcase on an empty chair. 

John looked from the ringing mobile in his hand to the pink case. 

“Who did you just text? Is that the woman’s case? The dead woman’s case?” he asked. 

Sherlock began speaking quickly, starting with the statement that he wasn’t the murderer. John didn’t think he was and elected not to comment on that. Sherlock explained how he found the case, the victim’s missing mobile, and his theory on where that missing mobile was. How if a stranger had found the phone, they would have ignored a text like the one he had sent, but the murderer would panic. Then he was throwing on his coat and scarf and John was swept along yet again in his wake, unable to walk away despite that being his intent all along. 

When he found himself sitting at a small table in an Italian restaurant eating an admittedly delicious carbonara across from Sherlock, who ate nothing, he tried to figure out what exactly had happened. It was as if he had no control over what was going on in his life right now. Sherlock was leading him along, and John happily followed in spite of himself. Even if he didn’t move into the flat, which he wouldn’t be, he reminded himself strongly, he was intrigued by this man and wanted to know more about him. He had been keeping up a steady dialogue while he ate and Sherlock watched out the window. 

“Dull”, Sherlock retorted to John’s assertion that people didn’t have archenemies in real life. That they had friends, people they liked and didn’t like. Boyfriends and girlfriends. 

“So you don’t have a girlfriend?” he asked. 

“Girlfriend? Not really my area,” Sherlock responded and John tried to ignore the stutter in his heart at that. 

“Oh. Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend, then? Which is fine, by the way,” he quickly verified when Sherlock actually looked away from the window to John. 

“I know it’s fine,” he answered. 

“So you have a boyfriend?” John asked as he again ignored the way his chest tightened at the potential answer. 

“No.” 

John looked away from him and gave a nonchalant nod. “Right, so you’re unattached, like me. Good.” 

He could feel Sherlock watching him and he turned his attention to his plate of food again. 

“John, I think you should know I consider myself married to my work and while I’m flattered by your interest,” Sherlock began. 

“No, no, I wasn’t...no. I was just saying it’s fine. It’s all fine,” John tried to explain quickly as he felt his stomach fall through the floor in panic and not a small amount of disappointment. 

Sherlock eyed him for a silent moment while John forced himself to remain still before the detective gave him a small nod. “Good,” he said. 

John carefully let out the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. Well, so much for not being awkward. John shook his head at himself and refused to look back at Sherlock, who had turned his attention away from John and back to the window as soon as he seemed satisfied that John had been thoroughly put in his place. He forced himself to eat another casual bite of the pasta that now felt and tasted like glue in his mouth. Sherlock suddenly perked up like a puppy who scented a new dog. 

“There’s our man,” he said quietly. “Taxi. Clever. Why is that clever?” 

“A taxi? The murderer is in a taxi?” John began to turn to look out the window when Sherlock settled a hand on his arm. 

“Don’t turn and look,” he admonished. 

“You’re looking,” John defended himself. 

“We can’t both look,” Sherlock explained with an eye roll. 

“What is this, sixth form?” John grumbled. 

Sherlock glanced at him completely bemused before he looked back out the window. 

“Damn, he’s leaving! Let’s go, John!” he instructed as he jumped from his seat and pulled on his coat and scarf hurriedly. 

John jumped up speedily, not willing to be left behind again if he could help it, and chased after Sherlock. 

And what a chase it was! The madman seemed to have a mental map of London in his head, both the streets and the buildings, as he had them climbing fire escapes to run across rooftops and jump across gaps. The whole time Sherlock kept calling to him and encouraged him to keep up. It filled John with an indescribable joy and pride that he was not being forgotten and that Sherlock seemed to actually want him there. 

When they finally caught the taxi Sherlock quickly deduced it wasn’t their murderer and with a quirky “Welcome to London!” thrown at the traveler, they promptly raced back to Baker Street and collapsed against the wall of the landing in hysterical giggles. John’s blood was singing in his veins at the thrill of it all. The mad dash through London following Sherlock Holmes was the happiest he had been since he had been shot. 

If he was honest with himself, it went even further back than that. He wasn’t sure if he had ever been this happy before. John’s body was so alive and aware of Sherlock as he stood next to him that he wanted nothing more than to grab and pull him towards him, to kiss the breath they had managed to gain back away, to completely lose himself in this mesmerizing man.  
He held himself in check, though, just letting his mind and body float on the surge of desire and adrenaline. Sherlock had made it quite clear that he wasn’t interested and John needed to stop whatever foolishness his heart was attempting to pull him into. He was shaken from his reverie when there was an insistent knock on the door. John turned towards the door, a mix of grateful and annoyed at the distraction. 

“Might as well answer it. It’s for you,” Sherlock said confidently. 

John went to the door and pulled it open. On the threshold stood Angelo, the owner of the restaurant where they had dinner, and he held out a cane with a large smile on his face. 

“Sherlock texted me. You left this,” he said as John took the cane from him in shock. Angelo tossed a wink at Sherlock before he left. 

John turned to look at the man as he still leaned against the wall. He was smiling at him, something like pride in his expression, and John huffed out a laugh. He was going to fall in love with this madman if he wasn’t careful. Unfortunately, John had never really been a careful man. 

“So about that room?” Sherlock asked expectantly. 

John was tempted. So incredibly tempted. To live with this man, to follow him around, to be lost in him. He could see it all happening with perfect clarity. 

But Sherlock didn’t want everything that John would undoubtedly end up giving, and John wasn’t ready to follow that path all the way to its undeniable dead end.  
Sherlock seemed to sense his hesitation, his refusal of the room, but before either of them could speak Mrs. Hudson came bursting out of her flat in a tizzy. 

“Oh Sherlock, what have you done?” she exclaimed. A sudden crash from the flat above forced their attention upwards as they realized they weren’t alone in the building. 

Sherlock ran, taking the stairs two at a time, and John was right on his heels as they entered the flat. There were police throughout the flat, searching through the papers scattered about and the detritus spread through the whole of the kitchen. In Sherlock’s chair sat the silver-haired detective inspector that John had met just hours before. Across from him, the pink case lay open. 

Sherlock ranted and the DI, Lestrade, ranted back. A drugs bust, he called it. John was thrown by the accusation, and then thrown again when he realized that it wasn’t exactly an unfounded attack on Sherlock’s character. The consulting detective seemed distressed by the events. Not out of fear of being caught with anything, but almost from embarrassment. John had a suspicion that Sherlock would much rather John had never known any of this past behavior he once indulged in. 

There wasn’t time to dwell on all of it, though. Sherlock was on the computer attempting to track the victim’s phone to geo-locate her killer and the flat was thrown into chaos between the two bickering men, the several other officers conducting the supposed drugs bust, and Mrs. Hudson who repeatedly interrupted everything to tell Sherlock that his taxi was here and the cabbie was getting very irritated at being kept waiting. 

Then Sherlock was off again without a word. John was once again left behind, confused and frustrated. The police eventually left when they realized Sherlock wasn’t going to be coming back as he apparently had a well-known habit of just taking off like that. 

In the quiet aftermath, John was left to try and work through what just happened. Something didn’t feel right about the way Sherlock had left and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was in some kind of danger. Years of serving as a soldier and a doctor had given him a bit of a sixth sense on these kinds of things, and he couldn’t ignore it. The computer pinged when it triangulated the location of the woman’s phone and John acted on instinct and took off in pursuit. 

Later, when he was washing the gunpowder residue from his hands, he reflected on the circumstances that had brought him to the point that on a daily basis he carried an illegal firearm with him. Reflected on the circumstances that led to today, and that he was grateful he did because he would kill to protect Sherlock Holmes. Without guilt or hesitation. 

He couldn’t live with him. The level of his devotion to the man was already astounding. It would complicate everything if he allowed himself to be completely immersed in his life. He could live in the periphery, though, if Sherlock allowed. That could be enough. 

John dried his hands and after checking that Sherlock was okay, he walked out of 221B and made his slow way back to his bedit. 

*

“You know, this would be a lot easier if you just moved in with me,” Sherlock reiterated for what felt like the thousandth time.

They had stumbled through the door of 221B in the early hours of the morning, riding the high of a successful evening chasing the criminals of London along its dark streets. John had made his way to the kitchen to get the kettle started for tea as the inevitable exhaustion that followed these types of evenings began to creep along the edges of the adrenaline that still coursed through his veins. 

“Sherlock, no. I already told you no, and I’ll tell you again. No, I am not moving in with you.” 

“Come on, John, why not?” 

“Sherlock, there were eyeballs in your microwave,” he said, going for levity instead of the more serious reasons for his objections for moving in. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to live at Baker Street. It was an effort to save what small part of his heart Sherlock hadn’t already stolen in the months they’d known each other. He was already arse over tits for the man. If he spent even more time with him, he knew there would be no coming back from it. He would be well and truly in love with him, and that was a dangerous thing to be. 

John shook his head at the lie he told himself. He was already in love with him. 

“I told you, those were for an experiment,” Sherlock explained for what felt like the hundredth time.

“So you say, and yet, there were still eyeballs. In your microwave,” John said as he crossed to Sherlock as he sat in his leather chair and handed him his cup of tea. 

“What if there weren’t eyeballs in the microwave? Would you move in then?” 

John just shook his head with a half-smirk on his face. Sherlock scowled at him, and John laughed outright. 

“It’s nothing personal. I just prefer a living space where there aren’t eyeballs where they’re not supposed to be. And we haven’t even touched on the fact that your brother kidnapped me hours after meeting you the first time,” John said as he settled down into the red chair across from Sherlock and sipped carefully at his own tea. 

His chair. 

It didn’t matter that John didn’t actually live upstairs. The chair had been inadvertently claimed by him, and it was now his chair. It wasn’t logical, but that didn’t change anything. 

“John,” Sherlock whined, and John was more amused than annoyed by it. 

“Sherlock, look. I’m more than happy to come and help out with your cases. I really am. But I don’t need to live here to make that happen.” 

“Perhaps not, but waiting that 35 minutes for you to get here after a case is called in is 35 minutes too long. I need to get on the scenes before Anderson arrives and messes everything up. You know this.” 

“You don’t have to wait for me, you know. I’m able to meet you at the locations.” 

Sherlock threw a hand in the air and waved it frantically as if trying to cleanse the air of the statement. “It’s not the same.” 

John wrinkled his brow in confusion. “What is that supposed to mean? As long as I get there, that’s what matters.” 

“Not at all. I need you there before to talk to. To bounce ideas off of.” 

“Wait, are you serious?” 

“Yes, of course, I’m serious. Do you know how much faster I have solved cases since meeting you? An average of 38% faster. That time has proved critical in several circumstances.”  
John stared at him as his mind began to race with everything Sherlock had said. 

“What?” Sherlock asked. 

“Really? Thirty-eight percent?” John questioned bemusedly. 

“Are you questioning my math?” Sherlock challenged and a trace of annoyance colored his tone. 

“God, no. I’m just...”John paused before he continued, trying to figure out what he wanted to say. “I just didn’t think I made any real difference in your work,” he finished simply. 

Sherlock leaned back in his chair with his elbows propped on the soft sides. He steepled his fingers together under his chin and regarded him thoughtfully. 

“Of course you do, John. I wouldn’t be here today if you didn’t make a difference in the work,” he stated plainly. John felt his eyes widen momentarily at that admission. They never spoke about the incident with the cabbie after John had put a bullet in him and saved Sherlock’s life. Sherlock had steadfastly maintained that he never would have taken that pill, of course, but they both knew the truth. This was simply the first time he had ever come close to actually admitting it. 

John looked away from him and toward the fire that warmed the sitting room. The occasional pop and crackle of the logs as they shifted or hit pockets of water in the wood served as background noise to their conversation. 

Sherlock had entered into his life quite by chance, and he had given John his life back. A purpose, a reason. Even if that reason was mainly to make sure the madman stayed alive to give John a  
purpose. It was a lovely symbiotic relationship they had developed. John needed Sherlock in his life, and Sherlock had just admitted that he needed John. It was a heady feeling knowing that Sherlock placed that kind of value on his presence in his life. 

“Sherlock, if you really think...”John began after several minutes of quiet contemplation, his eyes still on the fire, and he could feel Sherlock’s sharp gaze on him. “Sherlock, if you really think that it would make that much of a difference, then I will reconsider moving in.” 

John tried to ignore the way his heartbeat kicked up in his chest at the thought that he might actually move in with Sherlock. That this could be happening. “You said ‘reconsider’,” Sherlock spoke quietly. “What would you need to reconsider?” 

“Well, I would need to reconsider the clinic I’m currently working at. It’s close enough to me, but it would be a 45-minute commute from here, and I’m not keen on that.” 

“I’m sure you can find a clinic close to here. Not to mention that if you’re here, we could potentially take on more private cases and that would be a source of income for you if you can’t find something right away,” Sherlock reasoned, and John nodded. 

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” he agreed. “Then there’s the issue of the kitchen.” 

“What about the kitchen?” Sherlock asked. 

“Sherlock, I like to eat occasionally. In. Eat in. Cook and eat at a dinner table.” 

Sherlock remained quiet and invited John to continue with whatever he was going to say with a “carry on” gesture with one hand. 

John sighed. “Look, I’m not going to tell you you can’t experiment in there because it’s your flat, but I would appreciate a clean place to cook and eat.” 

“What if I kept my experiments to half of the kitchen table and half available counter space? I will make sure all other surfaces in the kitchen are sterilized in time for you to do whatever you need to in there,” Sherlock offered. 

“Half of the table and counters, sanitized before cooking and meals, and no organs in the microwave,” John counter-offered. 

Sherlock sat still a moment before he leaned forward and put his hand out. “Deal,” he said. 

John bit back the smile that wanted to come across his face. “Deal,” he said instead as he reached out and clasped Sherlock’s hand firmly and gave it a shake. 

John released his hand and Sherlock leaned back in his chair. Sherlock didn’t bother hiding his smile. 

“Well then. You should head back and pack up. If you hurry up you could be ready to move in by tonight.” 

“Sherlock, I am not leaving right this second to pack up. I’m tired. We were up all night tailing that bloke with the fish and I’m knackered.” 

“Yes, and just imagine, next time you can just go upstairs and collapse on the mattress instead of jumping on the tube for a 30-minute ride below London.” 

John laughed and shook his head at his friend. “I’ll tell you what. You come back to mine to help and I’ll pack and move in this evening,” he offered. 

“Do I have to help you pack?” Sherlock asked. 

“You can just sit there and watch me if you want. Probably won’t take more than an hour,” he said thoughtfully as he considered how few possessions he had. 

“Then why do you need me there?” 

“To help carry a box,” John replied and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well if you don’t want to come then I’ll just move in tomorrow,” he continued, and Sherlock stood up abruptly. 

“Nope. Come on, let’s go,” he commanded. 

He watched as Sherlock grabbed his wallet and keys, stuffing them in his pockets before he turned to head out the door. 

“Come along, John!” Sherlock’s deep voice called from the bottom of the stairs. 

John shook his head and chuckled softly to himself as he stood up and followed after Sherlock, just like he had done since the day he had met him. John watched Sherlock’s back and kept him safe. Sherlock gave John a purpose and watched his back, too. 

“Do you know when Mrs. Hudson will be back so I can sign my name on the lease?” John asked as he reached Sherlock. The taller man waited for him just outside the door with the gleaming 221B inlaid on its face. 

“Oh, that’s hardly necessary,” Sherlock replied. 

“Of course it’s necessary. If I’m paying part of the rent I need my name on the lease,” John explained. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, your name has been on the lease since the day you first saw the flat.” 

John stared at him as a million thoughts flew through his mind. He realized a moment later that none of his thoughts or questions even mattered at the moment. 

“Of course it is,” he laughed as Sherlock raised his arm and a taxi came to a stop in front of them. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock agreed with a smile.

*

True to his word, Sherlock did sit and watch as John packed up his meager belongings. John rolled his eyes at his friend and his lack of help, but he couldn’t even be annoyed with it. He was quietly ecstatic to finally be leaving this awful bedsit with its beige walls and its silent witness to the lowest points of John’s life. It took a little over an hour to pack his books and clothes, a few random mementos from his time in the army and the one picture of his family that had set in a downturned frame at the bottom of a drawer in his desk. Somehow, the few other possessions he knew he had were already at Baker Street, like his laptop and his favorite tea mug. He didn’t think too deeply about why that was. 

When he was done, he turned to his friend, who swiftly stood and grabbed one of the boxes that held John’s life in it. “I’ll take this down and grab a taxi for us.” 

John nodded his agreement, doing one more final sweep of the small room after Sherlock left. He took down the suitcase filled with his clothes, then went back for one more trip to grab the last box. His cane was set atop the last box and he touched the cool metal thoughtfully. He didn’t need the cane anymore, of course. Hadn’t needed it in months. He wasn’t sure why he still kept it, but he couldn’t leave it behind, either. As many terrible memories that it held, the cane also held the memories of first meeting Sherlock and chasing after him as they chased after a taxi. Of the wonderment he felt when Angelo stood on the doorstep and handed it to him, and the first truly genuine smile Sherlock had ever shown him, wide and carefree, and just the slightest bit smug at being right about John’s limp across his face. He pulled his fingers back from the cane and bent down to pick up the box and head back down the stairs. 

Sherlock had managed to snag a taxi and had already put the other boxes in the boot. John placed the last box in and tried not to dwell on the fact that everything in his life fit in the boot of a taxi. 

They piled into the back of the taxi and Sherlock gave the address to Baker Street. The cabbie pulled out into the traffic and they made their way to the other side of the city. They sat in silence for some time. John’s thoughts wandered over everything that had happened to him in the last several months. It was nearly a year since he had been shot and invalided out of the army. 

A year since his life had been flipped on its head and he had been cast adrift on the shattered remains of whatever was left. Which, admittedly, had not been much. 

Then Sherlock came into his life and everything changed again. That change, however, had been a healing balm to his tired mind and soul. Sherlock changed everything with his quick wit, clever deductions, and whirling Belstaff. Now he sat in the back of a taxi with that bewildering man heading to a place that had felt more like home than any other place ever had, and that was before he even lived there.  
John suspected that it had far more to do with the man beside him than the physical address that woke such sentiment in him. 

He could feel as Sherlock’s attention shifted to him. Felt the cushion decompress as the detective shifted closer to him on the back seat. John turned to look at him, to take in the face that had become so familiar and synonymous with “home” and “safe” and “friend” to him since his return to London. He smiled at his friend and didn’t bother to hide the fondness behind it. Sherlock was his friend, and he was more than allowed to be fond of him. 

The detective returned his smile shyly and John wondered at it a moment before he felt Sherlock’s large hand curl over his own as it rested on his thigh. John looked down at their hands, his heart thudding hard in his chest before he looked back up at Sherlock. Sherlock was watching him and he had a strangely uncertain and hesitant expression on his face that John had never seen before. 

“You know,” Sherlock began haltingly, his fingers tightening gently in their hold on John’s hand, “I’ve been considering turning the upstairs bedroom into a laboratory.” 

John stared at his friend in confusion at the sudden announcement that Sherlock apparently had plans for the room that John had agreed to move into just 2 hours ago. Had Sherlock changed his mind about John moving in? Did he no longer want to share Baker Street? Why was he holding John’s hand? Was it in an effort to let John down gently? John forced his face to remain as still as he could in an attempt to hide the warring feelings of anguish and disappointment over losing the room and the flutter of hope and desire that shot through him from the feel of Sherlock’s hand on his. 

“So I was just thinking maybe you’d like to share my room instead,” Sherlock said softly and John felt his eyes widen. “If you wanted, that is,” Sherlock quickly specified. “It was just a thought,” he ended and John’s  
heart nearly broke at how small he sounded. 

He turned his hand in Sherlock’s, pressing their palms together and threading his short fingers through Sherlock’s longer ones. The man looked up at him with his silver eyes for the first time since he touched John’s hand and John’s heart leapt at the eye contact. 

“What about being married to your work?” John asked. 

“It turns out there’s room for more than just the work in my life,” Sherlock stated plainly and John bit his lip to hold back his grin, but it was a wasted effort. 

“I have a rather short temper,” John said. “I’m terrible at talking about my feelings and I drink an exorbitant amount of tea. I like to sleep in on the weekends. Would that bother you?” he asked.  
Sherlock smiled, his other hand covering John’s so that his hand was caught between his warm palms. 

“You forgot how cranky you get when you’re hungry,” Sherlock reminded him and John laughed as he squeezed his hand. 

“Yes, and you forget to eat and keep eyeballs in microwaves,” John chuckled and Sherlock shrugged unapologetically. 

A year ago, John had almost wished the bullet that ended his career had ended his life instead. Three months ago, he was reminded that being alive might not be so bad. Three months ago, he was thankful that the bullet that ended his previous life brought him to a new one. One that he never imagined for himself, but could now no longer imagine any other way. He held the hand in his hand tightly and leaned against Sherlock as he sat beside him in the back of the taxi, the warmth of his body seeping into John’s skin where they pressed against each other. He was tired and wanted the rest that one seeks after emotional exhaustion. He let his eyes fall closed and his head rest against Sherlock’s shoulder. He breathed in the familiar scent of his friend. The subtle notes of something citrus and herbal, the leather of his favorite chair, the chemicals that he often worked with, and some deeper scent that was purely Sherlock. It reminded him of Baker Street. He released a breath that was more sigh than simple exhalation. 

“I’m ready to go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun with this story and there might even be a follow up to this one from Sherlock's POV because it just keeps circling in my head. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! Kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated and enthusiastically loved!


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